While organizing my things today, I stumbled upon a small notebook. Inside were various complaints and observations from over a decade ago, traveling through Europe, catching flights, staying in hotels. It was packed with granular details: flight layovers, the rooms, the front desks, the light outside the windows, and the distinct scents of foreign cities.

Reading it felt like being a person with temporary amnesia suddenly seeing signals left behind by their former self. One by one, the images flickered to life. I could almost feel myself standing there again.

I used to love keeping a diary when I was young. But gradually, I stopped. A diary is meant for oneself, yet there is always someone trying to sneak a peek. They call it "secrecy," but for others, it's just the pleasure of "deciphering" and gossiping. So, I put down my pen.

Later, I would occasionally jot things down, but only in outline form. A single line, two sentences, a condensed version of a life. Safe, ordinary, with nothing that couldn't be seen by others.

Today, it suddenly clicked: perhaps this is why I persist in writing these "ramblings." Because within these words, I encounter a version of myself that is almost a stranger. The tone, the rhythm, the things that mattered then they are all different from who I am now.

Yet, miraculously, I didn't feel lost. Instead, I was swiftly pulled back to the present by my own frequency. It’s hard to describe a sense of déjà vu, yet also a feeling of meeting an old friend too late.

Between my own lines, I meet myself again.

It’s not nostalgia, nor is it a mere comparison. It is a confirmation: Ah, so I’ve been here all along.

A diary isn't for recording events; it’s for leaving a trail that leads back home. No matter how much time passes, as long as you open it, you know that the person who wrote those words once truly lived.

Perhaps this is the earliest and most honest encounter between resonant souls. Not with someone else, but with oneself.



—— XC Scribbles · 壹佰肆拾陸 CXLVI 📖